Elder (the Prodigal Son re-imagined)
by ladywyntre
Summary: I have always had a soft spot for the maligned elder brother of the prodigal son. This story always made me happy to be an only child. I have placed this retelling in a modern setting with the bitter elder brother becoming a sister, as women seem to bear the brunt of being overlooked and taken for granted in a family.


Standing there with the silent lawnmower, I felt my brow beaded with sweat. I had a hard time forgiving the brightness in his eyes, the quickness of his step. Watching him go back into our house, an intruder who ought not have been welcomed, I steeled myself. Hardened my heart, you might say. I was expected to go in. They expected me to have bright eyes and a quick step too, and normally I would have obliged. I worked _hard_ to ease them even knowing I could never erase what happened. What _he'd_ done to our parents, especially Mother. His leaving had been ungrateful and ugly.

I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but I could hear a sharp bark of laughter coming from inside. When I looked up, Mother was backing out of the driveway, heading to Publix as she said she would. She had clapped her hands in bringing me the good news, the lines of her face easing as she danced to me. "We could be one of their commercials!" she laughed. I hated those commercials. Real life wasn't a Hallmark moment. In real life, the new wife of the favored family son would _not_ receive a treasured recipe from Nana. She'd have to earn it somehow, and it wasn't likely she could. And in real life, the doctor would _not_ come home to find that his extended family had set up holiday shop in his tiny apartment. And if they had, it'd have been at someone else's expense. Someone wouldn't have been able to make it, and giving this gift of time to the young doctor—a _doctor!_ He doesn't need your charity!—probably took Christmas away from someone in the family who needed it more.

"Maybe so," I said, hoping my voice didn't sound like the cat's flat ears. Mother," I chided gently, "don't overdo it. You know the doctor—"

"I feel better than I have in ages." Looked better, too. "The knee isn't even bothering me! I'll be home in half an hour. Just have to get a ham, maybe some sweet potatoes and soup for the casserole. And cherries for a pie!" Her eyes hadn't looked that alive in years. I had grown accustomed to seeing them brittle, flat, the pupil disappearing into the brown iris, increasingly dark from glaucoma drops.

I shook my head and turned away. "I've got to finish cutting this grass," I said, and she walked back into the house to get her purse before leaving for the store. Breakfast wasn't sitting well with me. I felt it rise into the back of my throat. I swallowed, but the taste was there—sharp, bitter, disgusting. Disgusted. I wanted to break something or maybe just scream. Or maybe I just wanted to go in there and tell Peter exactly what I thought of him and his stunts. Instead, I reached down and yanked the cord. The lawnmower sputtered into a full hum—first time on my first try. I might've yanked harder than usual.

I had more than half the lawn mowed, and something inside me eased as Dominic walked over and put his arms around me, not minding the heat. He looked at me for a long moment before speaking.

"You're mad," he said.

I rolled my eyes. If I spoke, I'd cry. I didn't want to cry.

"Is it Peter?"

I nodded once, and he sighed.

"Baby," he said, smoothing back my hair slicked with sweat. "If you and I had two kids, and one of them left for a few years, and then came back just in time for the Memorial Day picnic… you'd be happy." He began to rock me back and forth. "Wouldn't you be happy?"

I closed my eyes. "I wouldn't give them the power. And we weren't going to have a picnic. I was going later to pick up dinner from somewhere cheap. Mom didn't feel like cooking, and I have too much to do." My voice didn't break. It was steady, controlled.

He pressed his lips to the top of my head but didn't stop. "Baby, you know that you'd love them both equally."

Fury. The words exploded out, crisp and bitter, each syllable hissed but clear: "I would _not_." He stopped moving.

My eyes snapped open; I looked up at him. He stared down at me. "You mean that, don't you?" he asked. His tone was thoughtful, but I could see his eyes. He judged me. He judged _me_. Meanwhile _nobody_ judged _Peter_.

"It wouldn't be right, no it wouldn't. It would be a slap to the good one."

Dominic slowly loosed his grip on me until he'd let go entirely. "But they'd both be your children."

I shook my head fiercely. "A child acts like Peter, that's no child of _mine_. Stealing and running away? Never letting them know if he's alive or dead? And the things he said to them…"

I felt the moment Dominic wrote me off. His cell chirped, and he reached down and lifted it. "The boss," he said. "I have to take this." I nodded and stepped away, hoping I was wrong. Finding a good man wasn't easy, especially if one had already topped 30 and had two aging parents with no one else to care for them. But that's what Dominic had _liked_ about me. A sense of responsibility, he'd said. And love for my family. Since six months ago, when we started dating, I'd slowly begun to trust that he was one of those good men. He cut the phone off. I looked at him. "I have to go," he said. "Four people called in, and people are actually ordering pizza today."

"I understand. Managers are never really off."

"I'll call you."

I let that sit in the air for a moment before answering. I knew what it meant. I wanted him to know I knew. "Okay," I said.

"Okay." His forehead creased, but he turned and walked around the house to his car. I watched him drive away.

Mother walked out about ten minutes after she got back. "Where's Dominic?" she asked after a quick glance around. "I like that boy."

"Called in to work. I don't think he'll be coming back, though. We had a fight."

"Oh, baby," she sighed. "You can't hang on to anyone, can you?"

I looked at her.

"Come on in. Get cleaned up and talk to Peter. He's asked about you twice now."

Ah. "That's why you came out here."

"Baby…" I was starting to wonder if anyone in my life even knew my name.

"Look, you weren't going to cook when it was me and you and Dad and Dominic. But Peter comes home, and you're making a ham? And sweet potato casserole? And your cherry pie?"

"If I'd known it meant anything to you, I'd have cooked for you, baby. But Peter's _home_. I didn't know if he was dead or alive. Now I know he's alive and he's _here_."

"He once was lost but now is found?" I replied. "Well, I was blind, but now I see."

She stared at me. She stared at _me_. "Maggie?" she asked, her voice quiet.

I felt something besides anger for the first time in an hour. It took me a moment to recognize it. _Power_. Attention. Recognition. My _name_. "Sorry, Mother," I said. "When I finish the lawn here, I have to study. I just didn't want to leave you alone on a holiday, but now you aren't, and the truth is, I have a lot to do." And I pulled the lawnmower again—and it hummed on the first time again. I smiled and started back on the neat, row-by-row pattern I began earlier. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mother, stooped, walking back into the house slowly. Limping just a little—that arthritic knee must've started bothering her again. But Peter didn't have to _ask_ for her to cook the sweet potato casserole. He never had. Sure, she'd have done it if I _asked_. I couldn't ask my arthritic mother, her hands gnarled and trembling, to cut potatoes.

But she never offered, either.

If I left for a few years, though… My mouth watered, thinking about the casserole. I wouldn't have to ask. I'd even tell her _not_ to, and she'd _still_ make it. She wouldn't even blame me for having left.

I looked back at the house and cut off the lawnmower, ending my fantasy. I would walk in. I would apologize to Mother and hug Peter and tell him how delightful it is that he came home. I would offer to help Mother cut potatoes. Later, I would call Dominic and tell him that of course I would love all my children equally. Maybe he could be salvaged, especially if I showed up to the restaurant with a Coke. He loved Coke, but the pizza place only served Pepsi.

And I'll have done this because I have to face the truth. If I missed the chance with Dominic, there wouldn't be another man. I'd be alone. And if I left, Mother wouldn't treat me the same as Peter. If I left, I wouldn't be welcomed back. I'll take the crumbs of affection, the little I can get... I'll take a secondhand serving of sweet potatoes. Beats starving.


End file.
